Honey and Vinegar
by XxTwistedThornxX
Summary: His voice was soft, coaxing, but the underlying growl in his tone demanded obedience. It caressed her and lacerated her, filled her with pretty promises and dangerous threats. So sweet, so bitter. Like honey and vinegar.
1. Happenstance

**This is the final fic of my 7 in 7 days, which didn't get posted on time. I do not own The Elder Scrolls series or its characters, if I did I would be lounging about in Hawaii instead of in my bedroom writing fanfiction.**

Bruma was a miserable place. The northern winds bit viciously at any exposed flesh, stinging the body straight to the bone. Even in the warmth of the Jerall View Inn, with the hearth beckoning with welcoming flames and the imported mead from nearby Skyrim, promising to warm the throats and bodies of weary travelers, did little to quell Lucien's foul mood.

Dressed in a light brown doublet, simple linen pants, and leather boots, he sat unassumingly in the rear of the tavern nursing a flagon of ale. The Nords around him were boisterous, laughing and wrestling around the room. Lucien sneered.

His target had so far failed to make an appearance and the assassin was beginning to regret deciding to take this contract for himself. He had grown restless at Fort Farragut, he could only stare at the stone walls and work on paperwork from the Cheydinhal sanctuary for so long. His body craved the rush of death, his blade thirsted for blood. And his annoyance demanded more alcohol; however, he denied himself the pleasure. It wouldn't do to attempt the job without full use of his faculties.

At length, the tavern doors swung open and Heinrich Bear-Blood sauntered in, shifting his broad shoulders to better accompany the war hammer strapped to his back. He was tall, even for a Nord. His dirty blonde hair hung loosely about his head, his face sported a full beard, and his icy eyes scanned the tavern before they settled on the serving wench. His burly form strode through the roughhousing of his kinsmen without difficulty. He leaned against the bar and muttered softly to the woman behind it, sitting back on a stool as she nodded and rushed to fill his order.

He seemed on edge, nervously glancing over his shoulder every few moments. His eyes eventually landed on Lucien and he stiffened.

Lucien hid his frown behind his mug and didn't meet the man's eyes, pretending to busy himself with the copy of the Black Horse Courier in front of him. He was a shadow, a specter. There was no way this ice-brained Nord could guess who he was or his purpose. But, the stare burning into the back of his skull made him fidget.

Perhaps an Imperial such as himself was an unwelcome sight. The Nords were a proud people, and who was to say that his presence didn't cause some upset in a bar that seemed to cater to its regulars?

Lucien ignored the Nord's glare until the heat of Heinrich's eyes dissipated from the flesh on his neck. Once he was sure he was no longer being scrutinized; Lucien stood from his table, grabbed his cloak, and slipped through the tavern doors out to the billowing winds of the Jerall Mountains.

He shivered once, threw the cloak around his shoulders and pulled on the hood to protect his head from the fresh snow that had begun to fall.

_Sithis take this damned city_, he thought bitterly. He trudged through the snow, the falling flakes-picking up speed and density-covered his tracks as quickly as he made them. He needed to find a place to hide out and wait, somewhere that he wouldn't attract an audience. The contract stated that Heinrich visited the Jerall View Inn every Sundas, indulged in a few drinks, then left within the hour to visit a friend in the chapel of Talos.

Nords drank alcohol like water, which meant Lucien didn't have much time. He stepped away from the iced-over stairs and slipped into the graveyard behind the chapel to wait.

He hid by a large tombstone and fingered the ebony dagger inside his cloak with a shuddering sigh. The thought of the upcoming kill spread a familiar buzz through his veins. He need only be patient, but his blade whispered to him. It begged for the ecstasy that death promised, purred to him of pleasure sweeter than the caress of any lover. He shivered, though this time not from the cold.

The night was quiet, a welcome reprieve from the raucous tavern. Lucien leaned his left side against the tombstone, working to get a good view of the tavern doors. The snow was keeping citizens indoors, safe in the warmth of their hearths and families. He would not need to worry about an audience tonight, which meant he could enjoy this for as long as he wished.

Once the clock began to chime, the doors to the inn swung open. Heinrich strode out into the snow, glancing around before starting down the stairs to the lower level of the city.

But he walked right past the chapel.

Lucien frowned and followed him at a distance, careful for any sign of detection. Heinrich didn't seem to have a destination, he merely meandered through the streets. As he looped back towards the Chapel, the Nord paused.

"I know you're there," He called gruffly, a thick accent betraying his recent immigration from Skyrim. Lucien scowled and slipped into an alley just as Heinrich turned to glare behind him. "Come out and face me like a man!"

How had he known? Lucien surely hadn't lost his touch, no matter how long it had been since his last job.

A small Breton girl slipped out into the open, a rusted iron dagger clenched tightly in her pale, dirty hands, her feet were wrapped in strips of linen and her clothes were rags that were ripped and at least two sizes too small. Lucien arched a brow, relieved that it hadn't been himself that the Nord detected but confused at the turn of events.

Heinrich sized her up with a frown.

"This is the best they can think to send for me?" He asked then chuckled. "Your people insult me."

The Breton gulped, knuckles white with the force which she gripped her blade.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she straightened and scowled, trying to look menacing. "Just give me all your money, don't make me hurt you!"

"Oh, a thief, is it then?" The Nord's chuckle escalated to a full-blown laugh. He reached onto his back and pulled his war hammer in front of him. "You see my hammer, little thief, are you sure you want to do this? It's sent men four times the size of you to their deaths."

Lucien saw the girl falter, her skin looking paler.

_This is just pathetic…_

Heinrich took a single step towards the Breton, smirking as she jumped away from him.

"D-don't come any closer!" She warned, holding the old dagger before her. "Just put your coin purse on the street!"

Heinrich shook his head.

"You're daft, girl," In a few quick strides he was upon her, grabbing her dirty black hair in his fist and yanking her head back. The Breton yelped in pain, storm-grey eyes tearing up. "You're not very good at this, are you? I've had a fairly rough week, a lot of stress, you know how it is. Now, a little whelp like you threatens me, tries to steal from me, how do you think I'll react?" He threw her into the snow and took his hammer in both hands. "You're just the punching bag I need, no one will miss a little thief like you."

Lucien decided this had gone on long enough, he couldn't feel his toes and his cheeks stung from the icy wind. The Nord would be too distracted with the Breton to worry about watching his back. Lucien whispered a chameleon spell and drew his dagger, slipping out from the alley. The snow muffled his footsteps as he snuck behind the massive Nord.

Footprints appeared in the snow behind Heinrich and the Breton gasped. The Nord raised his hammer as she scrambled to her feet, then flung herself against him. Shocked, Heinrich stumbled and fell back, hammer falling useless into the snow beside him.

Lucien barely got out of the way in time, rushing under the cover of a porch so the snow wouldn't pile on top of him and give away his location.

The girl sat a top the Nord, both hands clutched around the hilt of the dagger, the blade imbedded in Heinrich's ribcage, through his heart. Her breath puffed out short clouds as she panted, staring wide-eyed at the crimson spilling out from beneath her hands into the snow. A thrill shot through Lucien's body at the sight.

She leapt to her feet with a horrified gasp, yanking the dagger up with her. Her head darted around, looking for witnesses before she gulped and kneeled to slip Heinrich's purse from his belt. As an afterthought, she dug into his pockets until she produced a key. Nodding to herself, she hid the key in the purse and tied it to the rope holding her pants up. After looking around once more, she hurried to a snow bank and rapidly began to dig.

Lucien watched bemusedly as she scurried back to the body, muttered a feather spell and dragged the Nord to his grave. Once the corpse was properly positioned, she covered the hole with snow until there was no trace of the Nord inside. The Breton rubbed her hands together and shook, but she stared at the blood stained snow with determination. She grabbed a branch from a nearby pine tree and brushed the snow around until it blended in with the dirt of the road. With a thick swallow, she tossed the branch to the side.

She looked to where his footprints had once been imprinted in the snow. The fresh flakes had covered them completely, making her wonder if she had ever seen them at all. With a brief shake of her head, she calmly began to walk away from the scene.

As she disappeared from view, Lucien couldn't help but chuckle in disbelief. The girl hadn't meant to kill Heinrich-quite the opposite if her panicked lunge had been any clue-the look on her face had revealed that the knife plunging into the Nord had been an accident, but she managed a clear head to dispose of the evidence quickly.

_Interesting indeed…_

Curious, Lucien followed her footsteps, trying to hurry before the falling snow obscured them from view. He walked across town until the prints ended at a decent sized home near the eastern gate. The windows were dark but he could see the hint of a fire burning in the hearth and a small form huddled up in an arm chair, shaking. From the cold or from horror he couldn't determine.

It occurred to him that this girl-who looked no more than a child!-had stolen his kill. He became at once outraged and intrigued, unsure if he should wring her neck or congratulate her on a stunning clean-up that even some of the most senior members of the Brotherhood seemed incapable of.

A mind like that could serve Sithis well.

_Sithis…_

Of course. Even though it was an accident, she had murdered his target. Sithis still demanded a soul. And what the Dread Father desired, he received.

One way or another.

**So, I hope it's believable so far. I believe that each chapter will alternate between Lucien and the Breton's (she does have a name, don't you fear) point of view, but don't quote me. Reviews are greatly appreciated and I'm kind of begging for them (I will admit it). This will be a chaptered story and I'd only like to continue if people are actually reading it, as it takes a lot of time and there are other fics I could be working on otherwise.**


	2. Ultimatum

**Thanks for the reviews guys! I really got inspired and I worked hard to get this chapter written and posted! I also try not to use game dialogue and tend to twist it around. It all says the same thing, I just don't copy it word for word.**

**I OWN NOTHING!**

**UPDATE: 5/10/2012 fixed Maela's description.**

Maela stared incredulously at the crimson seeping through her fingers. The old dagger that she'd found in a trash heap was buried to the hilt in the Nord's ribcage. His blood was hot, spilling over her hands and thighs into the cold snow below. She could see steam rising off of it in clouds.

No, the steam wasn't from the blood, but from her own exhilarated panting. It looked beautiful, coating her alabaster skin and tainting the pure flakes a deep scarlet…

Maela gasped and leapt to her feet, hands still clutched tightly around the dagger's hilt. She had just killed this man! He was laying cold in the snow because of her, and all she could think of was how beautiful it all looked? She hadn't meant to kill him, she told herself, she saw the footprints in the snow, the shimmer of a chameleon spell, the Nord had hinted someone was after him after all! She had thought if she warned him, he wouldn't harm her.

Well, he certainly wasn't going to harm her now.

She nervously glanced around for witnesses. Luckily, the night was as dead as the man below her. Maela looked back at the corpse, gulping as she met his wide, accusing eyes. Her gaze trailed from his face, to the wound-still pumping out blood, she mused-then finally to his coin purse tied at his belt.

She felt guilty, but how does one steal from dead men? He didn't need the gold where he was. He would never know hunger or the freezing night air again, and Maela found she envied the man in that moment.

She untied the strings and clutched the purse tightly, relishing the heavy weight of gold inside. She thought to slip away but paused, why stop at a coin purse? How long had it been since she had a roof over her head? Maela patted the Nord's pockets until she found what she was looking for: a key. She knew the home he had been residing in, a middle classed home near the east gate. With a warm fire and undoubtedly stockpiled with food.

She nodded once at the feeling of her empty stomach. Just for tonight, then she'd move on, he didn't need food anymore anyway. Now came another matter.

Tempting as it was, she couldn't leave him in the middle of the street to rot. Gods forbid a child stumble upon him. Maela looked at her surroundings, debating on the perfect hiding spot. There was a nice nestle of trees there, or she could dump him in an alley…her eyes settled on a large bank of snow.

_Maybe…_

She tossed the old dagger aside, slipped the key into the Nord's coin purse and secured it at her waist. She scurried over to the snow and began to dig frantically, muttering a weak spell to keep her hands warmed to prevent frostbite. Once the cave was deep enough, she kicked the dagger into the hole, then she slipped her hands under the Nord's arms, grunting at his weight.

She'd used quite a bit of magic lately, keeping herself (mostly) undetected while she followed the Nord, healing a few lacerations from earlier in the day, the heat spell to keep her from freezing, she felt drained. But still, she tried to focus. Summoning any magicka she had left, she whispered a feather spell. It worked, barely, but it was better than nothing. She dragged the carcass into his makeshift grave and quickly worked to cover him. She wondered if she should pray for him, if murderers even prayed for their victims at all.

_From snow we are born, to snow we return…_

She remembered hearing a bard sing that stanza during a festival one year, she supposed it was poetic enough to be considered a eulogy. The line meant little to a Breton, but she supposed a Nord such as himself would appreciate it. Once he was good and buried, she turned to attention to the blood on the ground. It would raise an alarm if anyone saw it, she knew. Maela ripped a branch from a pine tree and swept the snow as one would sweep dust off a porch.

By the time there was no trace of it left, Maela was exhausted. She glanced to where she had last seen the footprints, long since covered by the snow. She wondered if whoever had been sneaking around was gone, or if they were watching her. Waiting.

She shuddered at the thought and walked away, trying to bring as little attention to herself as possible.

* * *

><p>The fire was warm and welcoming, but Maela's stomach felt ice cold. The pantry was filled to the brim, but she couldn't bring herself to eat even a morsel. This wasn't her. She wasn't the type to kill a man and then invade his home, so what was she doing here? She curled up into the armchair and felt bile rise to the back of her throat. This house smelled like that man, but of course it would!<p>

She didn't regret killing him. No, she had felt an excitement far more fulfilling than anything she had ever felt before. She regretted that she didn't regret it. She knew it was wrong, she knew it was immoral. Then why did she wish that moment had never had to end?

Maela brushed her tangled ebony locks over her shoulder and closed her steel-grey eyes. She would sleep, Divines willing, and when she woke up everything would be alright.

Divines, she hoped everything would be alright.

* * *

><p>Years of sleeping on the streets had attuned her senses to any change in the area. When someone else entered the home of Heinrich Bear-Blood, Maela's eyes flew open and she tensed. A figure, shrouded in black, loomed over her. She felt more than heard the being speak.<p>

"You sleep soundly…for a murderer," it was a deep baritone voice that seemed to echo inside her. It made her feel uneasy, surrounded, like a rabbit cornered by a hunting dog. The man-though such an imposing figure couldn't possibly be human!-raised his head slightly and she could see thin lips accented by dark stubble. Those lips twisted into a smirk, seemingly amused by her wide-eyed stare. "That's very good," he continued. "You'll need a clear head for my proposal."

Maela swallowed thickly, her entire body shaking with the desire to flee.

"Wh-who are you?" She hadn't the mind to berate herself for her trembling voice, she was terrified of this man and she wouldn't fool him with a steady tone.

"A friend, child." He assured her, his demeanor softened. "Though not one that comes without a price."

Maela stared, dumbfounded. She had heard stories as a child, terrible tales of a specter that appeared to murderers to spirit them away to serve his dark master. She had never believed them to be true. He was a terrible presence indeed, but he didn't seem to be a ghost.

"That man you murdered was marked for death by the hands of another," he explained, "he was meant to die by my hand tonight, but you took that duty away from me."

"I didn't mean-"

"Silence."

Maela's throat constricted, as though this man could control her with such a simple command.

"You killed my target: a soul meant for the void," His hood masked his eyes but she could feel them burning into her, "a soul meant for Sithis."

That was a name unfamiliar to her. Was it a Deadra? Her brow furrowed but she didn't dare voice her question. He had demanded silence of her, and she feared what disobedience would bring.

"I see the confusion in your eyes, so I will make this simple for you, my dear child." He crooned as though speaking to a lover, his gloved fingertips caressed her cheek, sending a shock of apprehension down her spine despite how her eyelids fluttered closed. "Far in the South, on the road to Bravil, lies the Inn of Ill Omen. There is a man named Rufio, he's made a dangerous enemy, one that is willing to pay for his extinction." The man gently stroked her tangled hair, soothing the panic that had been welling up inside her. He placed an ebony blade on her lap and smirked. "Kill him with this dagger. Kill for me. Grant me a soul to replace the one you have stolen, and my family will welcome you with open arms. Serve Sithis with your life," he gripped her hair roughly and yanked her head back. Maela couldn't stop the shout that ripped from her throat. His voice suddenly became harsh, hissing like a venomous snake ready to strike, "or you shall serve him in death."

Maela peered up at him through tear-blurred vision, she could see his chestnut eyes under the hood, narrowed into a glare. His gaze seemed enough to set her aflame, should he will it.

"You have until the week is out," he warned, "whether you have killed the man, or not, I will be seeing you again. Be it to welcome you home, or send you to your grave."

He was gone in an instant, leaving Maela to blink back tears and stare at where the man had once stood. Could she do it? She wondered, how many people would readily admit that they'd kill an innocent stranger to save their own life? She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and rubbed the sore spot on her head. The dagger shimmered in the dying firelight, nestled on her lap as though that's where it belonged.

She ran her fingers along the hilt and blade, feeling that sick sensation of pleasure in the pit of her stomach

_Be it to welcome you home…_

He had said those words, hadn't he? Mentioned joining his family? Maela looked into the hearth, clutching the hilt of the dagger tightly to her chest.

As far back as she could remember, she'd had nothing to live for. No family, no friends, no home, no purpose. But now, this specter had appeared before her, offering her an ultimatum that, not matter which way you looked at it, ended in death.

Deep down, she knew the choice shouldn't have been so easy to make.


	3. Late

**Please excuse this chapter everyone. I had a horrible headache for three days and then had writer's block, but I wanted to get this posted. If it seems a bit incoherent, I apologize. I read it over and fixed it as best I could.**

Lucien left Bruma swiftly, stealing under the cover of night and finding Shadowmere impatiently stomping her hooves in the snow. Her blood-red eyes glared at him accusingly and he felt slightly guilty that he couldn't have left her in the stables. A horse such as her would merit too much attention, unfortunately.

He gently pat her nose and mounted her, smirking at the aggressive nicker she sent his way. It was his only admonishment before Shadowmere obediently began to gallop down the freezing mountain.

His thoughts were rampant, running from the botched job, the Breton, and his hasty proposition. He was sure the Night Mother could forgive his rash action, he had personally seen her kill and though he'd had no formal order to recruit her, he was certain she would be a nice addition. And, if she wasn't, she wouldn't be a problem for long.

Lucien shuddered at the thought. That would be a beautiful death indeed. The Breton herself wasn't "beautiful," covered in dirt as she was, but her eyes! He thrilled at the thought of those expressive steel eyes, bright and teeming with life growing dark and vacant as the blood spilled out of her, her cracked, dry lips gasping with unspoken curses.

It was quite possibly the unresolved blood lust he felt at losing his kill, but a part of him hoped she refused his proposal. The other was desperate to see her kill again.

Pulling the reins, he coaxed Shadowmere to a slow trot. Why should he wait for news to reach him via gossip? He'd seen her kill on accident and that stoked a fire in his veins which he hadn't felt in Sithis knew how long. What would it be like to see her take a life with purpose? Lucien licked his drying lips.

Rufio had to die. If she didn't show up he'd just have to do it himself and then kill her soon after for not heeding his warning. If she _did _show, he'd bear witness to what was sure to be the most satisfying assassination he'd ever seen. His blood pounding in his veins at the mere thought promised him as much.

He would ride straight past the Blue Road, he decided, forsaking Fort Farragut for more southern scenery.

One must watch their investments carefully, after all.

* * *

><p>Maela submerged herself into the steaming water. How her heart had leapt when she discovered the tub! She'd wasted no time filling the basin with water, using a flame spell to heat the bath to a comfortable temperature. With a sigh of relief, the Breton scrubbed the dirt and blood from her body and hair. The thought to remain in the house forever crossed her mind, but she knew Heinrich had kin that would come looking for him eventually.<p>

_And then there's that…_

Maela looked at the pile of rags on the floor, the ebony dagger resting easily on top, as though it were enjoying her leisure time as much as she was. Maela leaned out of the tub, her fingers danced languidly along the blade, assuring herself that her late-night visitor hadn't been a dream conjured up by a guilty conscience.

She scoffed bitterly at the thought. The blind could see she harbored no guilt in her soul. Confliction, yes. She knew she should feel something, she killed a man and invaded his home on the very same night. While she felt strange, it was more like awkwardness, as though she were at a party and didn't know any of the other guests. She just knew she didn't belong.

She had thoughts running through her mind like ants she just couldn't squish. What if she should go through with it? She would be accepted into the specter's "family" and live happily ever after? Somehow, it didn't seem so easy. What if she decided later on that she didn't want to do it anymore? She sincerely doubted they'd let her walk off with a "come visit some time!" and let her be on her merry way.

But, if she refused she was a dead woman outright. That organization really left options open, didn't they? Maela sighed and stepped out of the tub, shivering at the loss of heat. She scurried into the bedroom, desperate to find some clothes that would fit her small form.

At length, she found a light blue dress of Imperial design—_The Nord must've been a real lady-killer—_in the guest room wardrobe, and while she had to tighten the laces as much as possible, it wasn't a bad fit. She turned her attention to the looking glass, a faint smile tugging at her pink lips. With all the dirt and mud scrubbed off her face, she actually looked 17 for once. Her skin was pale as the moons, smooth and soft from the soaps she'd found on the shelf. Her ebony black hair was damp, but beginning to curl at the ends as it dried. Maela combed her fingers through the locks with determination, not satisfied until it lay straight on her head.

After she finished, she traveled to the larder, nibbling on a loaf of bread as she filled a sack with provisions for her upcoming journey.

She would travel to the Inn of Ill Omen. It would take her days, almost the entire week she was allowed. During that time, she'd be sure to think about her decision. It wouldn't be too late if she decided to decline. She could end her escapade at the Imperial City or continue south to Bravil or Leyawiin. The dagger she had received was well-made and would probably fetch a pretty price if she sold it to the right vendor.

Maela shook her head and pulled one of Heinrich's fur cloaks around her, slipping her bag of food over her shoulder. She opened the front door and stepped out into the frigid morning air, looking back into the house with a forlorn sigh.

Pulling the hood over her head, she slipped out of the east gate. She made to begin her descent when her eyes danced over to the stables.

_A horse would make this easier. _

She glanced around, rolled her shoulders and opened the gate. The stable hands were no doubt still asleep, if she was quick she'd get out of this unscathed.

The paint horse eyed her warily as she approached, its tail swishing in agitation.

"Come on," Maela cooed, reaching into her bag to fetch a bright, crisp apple. "Hungry?"

The horse sniffed once. Twice. Its grey eyes watched the fruit as Maela waved it around. It took a step forward and Maela stepped back, leading the horse out of the stables and away from prying eyes.

"If I give this to you, you have to promise you won't throw me off your back."

The horse snorted and she took that as confirmation, allowing it to eat the apple from her hand.

Once there was nothing but the core, the sun slowly began to rise in the east. Maela promptly mounted the animal, bunching her skirt up in order to sit comfortably.

"I think I'll call you…Pascal."

Pascal nickered in distaste and Maela smiled in amusement.

"Alright, let's go."

Pascal didn't move.

"Let's _go_," Maela repeated. Again, the horse refused to budge. "Come on, I fed you!" Pascal's ear twitched and he looked around, seemingly more interested in the scenery than the Breton on his back. With an annoyed huff, Maela jabbed her heels into the horse's sides.

Pascal grunted in aggravation, but reluctantly began to trot down the trail.

"Finally!"

* * *

><p>Six days. Lucien grimaced, fingers impatiently tapping on the wooden table. He tried to busy himself with spinning his spoon in the food the innkeeper had so generously supplied him with.<p>

_"A week's stay?" The nord (he had excitedly told Lucien his name, but who had time for such nonsense?) had asked incredulously. "Welcome to the Inn of Ill Omen, friend! Consider yourself welcome anytime! Now, can I get you a drink? On the house, for my favorite customer!"_

Lucien took a look inside the bowl. It was a stew of some sort, but that was the most he could decipher out of the strange dish. It was lumpy, grey, and smelled faintly of rat piss.

_Perhaps the fool should be brought in as a poison expert_, he thought wryly, _this food would surely kill any who ingested it._

Lucien had taken to traveling down the road to the Faregyl Inn when he required sustenance. While the atmosphere wasn't so attuned to his tastes, the food was edible and the ale fresh. But, he hadn't come south for a pleasure trip.

His eyes glanced at the door and he frowned. It was a pity, really. He'd honestly believed the girl had some sense, but her week was almost up and she had yet to show.

Come midnight, Rufio would die by his own hands. Then, the hunt for her would begin. He shuddered, the chase was one of his favorite parts. The perfect build up to an earth-shatteringly satisfying kill. There was nothing like the pump of adrenaline, running after the prey, out-smarting them at every turn. Being seemingly everywhere at once until the target grew too disorientated to notice he stood right in front of them. Then, the eyes would widen in realization as his dagger pierced their chest, painting the ground with a delicious crimson.

Just six more hours…

* * *

><p>Maela stared at the inn and swallowed thickly. It was now or never. She turned her eyes up to the dark sky. She could make it to Bravil in no time if she just continued straight on, but she feared what she might find on the road. She'd heard rumors of minotaur and trolls patrolling in the shadows and didn't feel too confident with nothing but the small dagger and a handful of novice spells to defend herself with.<p>

She tightened her hold on the reins. She could do this.

_No I can't…_

It was easy to pretend to be confident during the journey, but when she was finally faced with the task at hand, Maela found her usual meek demeanor returning.

She remembered the cloaked figure towering over her, his gloved hand caressing her as though she were something rare and valuable. Too quickly had that gentle stroking become a grip that promised nothing but pain should she refuse him.

No, she couldn't run away. She could hear his voice, coaxing her along. It filled her with courage and apprehension. She would kill a man and she'd be doing it for a complete stranger. Maela dismounted and lead Pascal to the broken down fence on the side of the inn, tying his reins to the post in order to keep him from wandering off. She smoothed out her skirt and lightly touched the dagger at her waist.

She could hear it singing.

Maela shook her head frantically and pulled the fur cloak off of Pascal's saddle (she had taken it off once the air became too humid) holding it under her arm to drape over the dagger glinting in the moonlight. She pushed open the door, the wood swollen from the damp air. It creaked and groaned. A bitter aroma wafted into her nostrils as she stepped over the threshold.

The inn looked even smaller on the inside and she grimaced. If she needed a quick escape, it would not come easy. The innkeeper was asleep behind his bar and she sighed in relief. At least he wouldn't know she was there should imperial guards come sniffing around. As quietly as she could, Maela tip-toed past the bar and up the rotting steps, they creaked under her weight but the Nord didn't stir from his slumber.

There were only two rooms on the top floor. The knowledge that Rufio was behind one of them, waiting, made her palms sweat. She wiped her hands on her skirt, dropping the fur cloak to the ground to unsheathe the dagger. She'd be quick, not even give him a chance to scream.

That's what assassins did, right?

Maela took a deep breath and put her right hand on the door, clutching the dagger tightly in her left. She threw the door open and charged in, ready to strike…nothing.

The room was empty. Only a pile of clothes neatly folded at the edge of the bedroll betrayed the occupant's existence on Nirn. Maela frowned, adrenaline already pumping through her veins. Next door then, he would be next door. She closed the door of the first room and darted into the second. It too was empty.

It didn't make sense, she _had _been told to go to the "Inn of Ill Omen" hadn't she? Maela looked at the blade in her hand.

"Oh, shut up you," she growled at its laughter. Then she paused, eyed the dagger warily and sheathed it. Maela snuck back down the steps and looked around the lobby for any clues. The snoring of the inn keeper was getting on her nerves and she grit her teeth. She obviously heard the man wrong and soon he would be after her. She hurried to the door and froze, a sharp shout echoing in her ears. She whirled around, eyes landing on a trapdoor behind the stairs.

_There!_

She wasted no more time, pulling the hatch open and climbing down the ladder. At the end of the narrow hallway, she saw an open door. Light from candles spilled out into the hall and she saw the shadow of a man trying to crawl away.

Maela ran for the bedroom, unsheathing the dagger once more when she saw a shadow looming over her target. There was one final scream when she rushed in. Blood spilled over the hem of her dress and soaked into the doeskin shoes she wore on her feet.

The man from Bruma stood over the body, blood dripping from his dagger and soaking the cloth of his robes. A crazed grin looked like it'd split his face in two and his eyes glistened in the flickering flames. He looked euphoric, as though he were alive for the first time.

His eyes flickered over to Maela, focusing on the ebony dagger she had clutched in her hands. Her skin lacked all color as she watched the blood gush along the wooden floor like a river in the middle of a storm.

Divines save her. She was too late.

**Again, please excuse this chapter. I can promise the next one will be 9,000,000 times better.**


	4. Escape

**That awkward moment when you screw up your own character's description…it was just her eye color but I'm going back and fixing it now. I am the queen of fail. Anyway, working on so many other stories (I do this to myself) and didn't work on this one, sorry! But, now it's updated and I'm trying to work out a system of what order stories will get new chapters.**

When Maela was a child, she had witnessed a wolf stalking a rabbit. It was crouched low, ears flat as it locked eyes with its prey. The rabbit had been too frightened to do much else than stare at the beast. This was the predicament the Breton currently found herself in.

The "wolf" had his brown eyes locked on her, still holding his dripping blade casually in his hand. Maela could do nothing but gape and remain mesmerized in his stare. Even when the man began to move toward her, she found she couldn't will her heavy legs to step away. She was frozen in fear, just like that rabbit.

Now, all that was left was for the wolf to pounce.

The assassin stopped in front of her, a smirk curling his lips. He raised his hand to the petrified girl and brushed some ebony hair behind her ear, leaning down to whisper to her in a low growl, "Run, little rabbit."

All sense seemed to return to her, as though his words had broken some sort of spell. She pushed away from him and darted back into the hallway, his deep laugh resonating off the walls and following her as she climbed up the ladder and through the hatch. Slamming the trapdoor beneath her, Maela ran outside of the inn to where Pascal was tied to the fence. She sheathed her dagger, pulled his reins loose and mounted him, giving him a panicked kick to his ribs to break him out into a gallop.

She didn't have the courage to check for signs of pursuit, only urged the horse faster and faster, praying to every divine she could think of for protection. When the gates of Bravil loomed in the distance, Maela felt a ray of hope.

Pascal whinnied loudly in pain, collapsing to the ground and throwing Maela off his back. She rolled in the dirt a few feet away and groaned, lifting her head to see a silver arrow imbedded in her horse's flank, shining in the light of the moon.

"No," Maela scrambled to her feet, "No, please Mara, no," she began to run for the gates, the sound of a galloping horse pursuing behind her. It became closer and closer and the Breton couldn't stop the tears as she clenched her eyes shut, waiting for a blade to swing down and take off her head.

"Miss, are you alright?" A gentle voiced asked from above. Maela opened her eyes and sobbed in relief, an imperial man sat on a dark horse. His chestnut brown hair was tied behind his head and his lips were turned down in a concerned frown. He was dressed in middle-class clothing, perhaps he was a merchant of some sort, but that didn't matter to her.

"No," she cried, "Please, help me! He killed that old man and now he's after me," she ran to the imperial and grabbed his pant leg desperately, "Please, I'll do anything, just help me!"

"Milady, please slow down," the man frowned and offered her his hand, "come with me, I can bring you into the city and you can tell the captain of the guard, I'm sure they'll find somewhere safe for you to hide until they find the one responsible."

"Thank you," she took the man's hand and he lifted her onto the saddle in front of him, locking her safely to his chest while he held the reins and urged his horse into a trot. She relaxed only slightly, feeling safer now that someone else was with her, but she was still alert for any sign of the hooded assassin lurking in the shadows.

"I'm very sorry that happened to you," the man said. Maela looked up at him, meeting his kind, brown eyes as he stared down at her with pity. "That sounds like a horrible ordeal."

"I don't want to think of it any longer," she confessed, "I just want to find somewhere to hide, and forget any of this ever happened." She bit her lip, knowing she could never tell anyone that she had gone to the Inn on her own accord. How was she to explain what she was doing in that old man's room as an assassin plunged a blade into his chest?

"I understand," the imperial said, he smiled softly at her and Maela felt warmth bloom in her chest, "You must be very brave."

"No," she admitted, "I'm just very foolish." The man laughed at that, a soft, calm chuckle that rumbled deep in his chest.

"Funny how those two things coincide, wouldn't you agree?"

Maela smiled softly and nodded. She wished she had met more men like him over the years. He was soft and kind, she was surprised he had so readily helped her despite hearing the story. Many nowadays wouldn't have had anything to do with a woman who was running from a murderer, but he'd lifted her onto his horse without a second thought.

Maela wondered what he'd look like covered in blood. He probably wouldn't look like a gaping fish, as Heinrich had. She imagined this man would die quite elegantly, his skin slowly growing pale as he lost blood, his dark lashes fluttering shut as a single, final breath was sighed from his throat.

Her eyes widened and she looked away, covering her mouth and willing the image out of her mind. The dagger was singing to her again, begging her to unsheathe it and let it taste the life essence it so craved.

"Are you alright?" The man asked. Maela nodded quickly, running her hand through her hair with a sigh.

"I'm just very tired," she sighed, ignoring the sound coming from her waist.

_Quiet, he's sure to hear you!_

"It's still some time until we reach the city, perhaps you'd like to rest?"

"Yes, thank you," Maela gently leaned against the man's chest, feeling the lean muscle hidden underneath his clothes. She sighed and the man shifted to keep her from falling off the horse.

"Oh, before I forget," he said, reaching behind him into the saddlebag. Maela opened her eyes and watched as he pulled out a fur cloak. His voice dropped to a low growl and he smirk, eyes sparking with malice as he held Heinrich's cloak in front of her to see. "You forgot this at the inn, my dear."


End file.
